White Collar: What Goes Around
by Ruahnna
Summary: A trip to a thrift store reminds Neal that some things are worth trying to salvage.


**Title: What Goes Around**

**Rating**: Gen

**Word Count:** 1,640

**Story Summary:** A trip to a thrift store reminds Neal that some things are worth trying to salvage.

**A/N:**Written for a one-word prompt "Simplify" from Promptfest VIII "Lets Take Some Chill Out of the Air"hosted by Elrhiarhodan.

He'd been here a hundred times, at least. The little thrift store was in his radius, and he haunted the aisles when he wanted to shop and felt fester-y and irritated by the confines of his life. Poking through other people's treasures, great and small, seemed to take him out of himself and soothe the demons—at least for a bit.

Neal wandered up and down the rows, checking out the glassware, the chatchkas and the bric-a-brac. Once in a while, he saw furniture that—in it's heyday—he would have liked, but the thought of restoring furniture in his apartment had not appealed. Besides, he _had_ enough furniture. Furniture implied permanence, roots. Debts.

He had enough debts.

But not enough chits to call in, apparently. He'd angled, flattered, cajoled and connived, _desperate_ to seen the exhibit before it closed, but while Peter _had_ to have known, _had_ to have seen, he'd never offered. He'd never even _teased_ Neal about his increasingly blatant hints—or _tried_ to tease him—parrying Neal's comments about his hopes for his leisure time with groans about his own lack of free time, and his own complaints about work demands.

The lack of teasing had hurt for its own sake. Time was when he and Peter had dogged each other about _everything_, and it had been a sort of shorthand for "I know you, I _see_ you, I've got your back." They didn't do that anymore—even simple conversations were strained to the point of misery, and awkwardness intruded where there had never been any before. He thought that Peter had seen him in every conceivable state, had known him better than anyone, and the loss of that scrutiny, the loss of that searching _knowing_ look, had been like the sun going behind the clouds.

Neal would have owned that he'd been touchy lately, but he'd also been trying desperately not to be needy in _any_ way, to require _nothing_ beyond what he felt his work at the office merited. He'd done everything put on his desk, worked late without complaint, put himself at risk in service to the Bureau and done it all without so much as an "attaboy." And yet, in spite of everything, all Peter seemed to see was what he'd done wrong, or what Peter _suspected_ he'd done wrong. So if Peter hadn't _offered_, and hadn't _teased_ and hadn't _noticed_, he might cowboy up and get over it. There was no chance he'd get within blocks of those three paintings by Matisse, and it had been a long time since he'd stood in front of one of his works and basked. Tomorrow was the last day, and Peter would be watching the game. Neal found he was grinding his teeth, and tried to stop.

Lately, he'd had the worst of both worlds in every possible sense. He had a criminal handler who thought he owned him breathing down his neck and an FBI handler who—on _one_ hand, was too preoccupied to see what was really going on, but on the _other_, seemed to have a laser focus on the things most likely to make him look unsalvageable. Neal's mouth twisted in a rueful smile. No _wonder_ he liked thrift stores, liked salvaging things...

The clothes were pretty picked over today, but a pair of expensive gray flannels caught his eye until he saw they had been poorly altered. He looked at the waistband, trying to determine if what had been done could be undone without detection (and wasn't that _always_ the case with him?), but couldn't seem to make a decision—or care. He checked the price and put them over his arm, wanting to think about them a little.

Neal snorted. He'd had plenty of time to think, plenty of time to ponder. What he needed was inspiration, _rest_oration, absolution. He laughed at the grandiose scale of his thoughts, but wryly, his mouth twisting to the side. He wandered over to the books, looking for things he'd like, things he thought Mozzie might like, things June would find interesting. Once in a while, you could find a first edition in good shape, sometimes a book signed by the author that might fetch a little online. He hadn't the patience for it himself, but Mozzie knew a guy... Neal grinned to himself. Mozzie _always_ knew a guy.

Going through the books—_really_ going through the books—was calming, restful. It was easy, most times, to find solace in words. Mozzie had taught him that, had opened his mind to some of the world's great philosophers. It was an education he wouldn't have heeded in school, but wouldn't have survived without. He left the book section, still carrying the pants, and went toward the appliances. He could not think of anything he actually needed in his apartment, but sometimes people got high-end small appliances for gifts and either didn't know how to use them or didn't like storing them for infrequent use. Sometimes the original seal was still on the box, the warranty intact. Mozzie never sent in warranties, of course—they _tracked_ you according to your purchases that way, according to him—but he had kept the cappuccino maker Neal had found.

He was standing there, feeling his black mood dimming, when he heard the doorbell tinkle. It had been quiet—no one had come in since he'd arrived almost an hour ago. Reflexively, he looked up, then his eyebrows rose in surprise. Peter stood in the doorway, hands on hips, wearing his unhappy face. Neal's heart began to thump but he quieted it with an effort. The world had been threatening to fall down around his ears for weeks now—he was ready to cover his head and hope for the best, and almost miserable enough to _want_ that, just to be done with the waiting. He stood there, looking at Peter and feeling so uncertain he couldn't think what to do.

The pull of his gaze brought Peter's, and Peter saw him and—Neal later swore—started to give him the two-finger beckon, but he remembered, or _seemed_ to, that Neal was a private citizen at the moment, just a shopper in a store, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over to where Neal stood.

"Neal, I need you to—" Peter said, then reached out and touched the trousers. "Nice," he said.

"Yeah. I'm thinking about it," Neal said, surprised at the ordinariness of the conversation.

"Beautiful material," Peter murmured, then seemed to remember he had not come across town to shop at the thrift store.

"I need your help," Peter said. "I need to re-interview a witness, and I'd like you to ride along and see what you think. I've only read the transcript of the interview that was done and it looks to have been a clumsy job. There were questions _I_ would have asked that they didn't, lines I would have pursued. Anyway...I know it's Saturday, but I thought you could ride along."

_Wouldn't want to bother an agent on their day off,_ Neal grouched uncharitably, but he smiled his "smile of delight" and said, "Sure. Of course." _It's not like I have plans._

"Thanks," said Peter, distracted again, completely blind to the nuance of Neal's answer. Neal sighed. He might as well work.

"Go ahead an check out," Peter said. "I'll wait."

Neal hesitated. "I...I hadn't decided. It might be too much work. I won't know until I get in there and see what's already been done."

"Sometimes you can't tell by looking," said Peter. "Sometimes you just have to do your worst and hope for the best." His tone was off-hand, but he was looking at Neal steadily, his expression gentle. Neal opened his mouth to speak, _no idea at all_ of what was going to come out, but Peter interrupted him before he could say anything.

"Hey—look, I know I'm taking you're day off. I'll make it up to you—how about lunch after?"

"I'm trying to cut back on hot dogs," Neal said. The barb landed but did no visible damage.

"Well, for your information, I was thinking of someplace a little more upscale."

"Too much Taco Bell makes me—"

"Well, if you don't want to see the Matisse portraits anymore, we'll just—"

"What? No—no, I want to! Peter, I want to!" In his eagerness, Neal had turned around and blocked Peter's forward passage, was practically plucking at his sleeve. "I—I _do_ want to see them, and tomorrow is the last day and—"

"Then we'd better get going. We'll do the interview, then we can grab a bit in the cafe—before or after—and still have time to get a good look before the afternoon light is gone. Sound good?" Peter's face was guarded, but Neal's was not. He was too surprised to pretend indifference, and too happy to contain it.

"I—_thank_ you, Peter. I...I've been wanting to see them—"

"Right. I seem to recall you mentioning it a few...dozen times these past two weeks."

Neal couldn't even manage to look sheepish. He grinned. "And I was worried I'd been too subtle."

"Not usually your problem." They started for the door, and Neal started to put the trousers back, but Peter made a noise.

"You're not going to get them?"

"I...I don't know. They might be a lot of work, and I don't know what the outcome will be."

"It's a risk," Peter said, his mouth quirking into a smile. "I think the question you have to ask yourself, Neal is—do you feel lucky today?"

Neal shook his head, groaning at Peter's horrible Dirty Harry impression, but the he looked up and grinned. "Yeah," he said. "I'd have to say—today, I do. I feel lucky today."

He bought the pants.


End file.
